Amy started drawing again. More shows followed. Commissions trickled in. She reduced her hospital hours and began teaching art therapy.
We did too.
A year later, I proposed on the same swing set she’d once sketched. She said yes.
At our wedding, I told the story:
Of the girl with no lunch and shoes too big.
Of the cheese sandwich.
Of the letters.
Of the nurse who walked into my hospital room and changed everything.
People laughed. People cried.
Amy stood beside me, radiant.
“You saved me,” I said into the mic. “And I didn’t even know it.”
She whispered back, “You saved me first.”
She paints in the back room. I brew coffee.
Outside, a sign reads: Don’t be shy if you’re hungry. We’ve been there.
We donate part of our earnings to schools for food and art supplies. Because no child should feel invisible.
Sometimes kids walk in alone, wearing clothes that aren’t theirs, eyes quiet.
Amy always notices. She brings them cocoa and a smile.
When I ask what she said, she always replies, “Just reminded them they’re important.”Continue reading…
